Hard-boiled Sweetheart

A Prose Sonnet

by Art Taylor

“What’s she to you?” he asks, eyes on my gun — a brittle sneer and beading sweat. The train’s
long gone, the station’s empty. A dull rain is drumming rat-a-tat. No place to run. One trigger twitch will close the case — job done — except… my client lied, can’t pay. In vain
I’ve done her dirty work, and what’s my gain? What’s she? My sweetheart true? Or just dumb fun?

I see her straight now: Pretty, dolled-up dame with sordid tales. “I need your help,” she’d begged — a fluttered lash, a smile, a shapely frame-up…. Lesson learned. I’d fallen hard. She’d fled.

“She’s trash,” I laugh, “No good.” But all the same, it soothes my loss to fill him full of lead.